Into the Fire
by Nautical Dawn
Summary: The risk of a wrong decision is preferable to the terror of indecision. Harry knows Fenrir is simply using cunning to get what he wants: a hand around his throat and another over his eyes.


**D**awn broke lightly over the horizon, slowly and cold, a grey morning with overcast clouds that moved in little strands together. _It's like the lining of a blanket_, Harry thought, _the inside of my bed_. He willed that to be reality, looking straight up into the cool air, ignoring the fact that there was quite pointedly a branch poking into his thin jacket (_now black, because for some reason, light colors seemed inappropriate after Dumbledore's __ death__, much too informal and relaxed. And above all, Harry was not relaxed anymore. He could only barely remember the last time that he was_.)

Harry knew he shouldn't have been lying there, because somewhere in a post town near there, there was someone waiting for him, to train him, to make him stronger than he is now. He knew he had to be stronger, because what he was now wasn't what he -needed- to be, and if he wasn't, he couldn't make good on his promise. (_A secret promise to himself as well as Hermione, because speaking the words out loud could not possibly contain his vow, his determination._)

Harry's hand twitched, as if waiting to move, to actually _do_ something, but instead he flinched, feeling the tendons stretch, lift, and break its hold. He didn't have the strength to get up yet, he wasn't sure if he'd even had the strength to close his eyes away from the blanket sky. Harry shifted and thought of himself like a young tree, all sinew and young, with no support.

It bothered him that he could say the same of many other parts of his life.

_You're vulnerable_, Harry said to himself, commanding his body to move, _anything_ to move. He knew that his body was all there and well, it just wouldn't respond to his commands. This lack of control (_so like him_) frustrated him, and he growled, eyes squinting. He felt stupid, lying on the ground, an open target to anyone or _anything_.

He vaguely thought of nameless and faceless opponents that Snape would have him think existed. Terrible devils in the night that wanted to suck out his soul, he thought with a laugh.

Again he strained his muscles, anger giving him strength and fire to move and at last he was on his knees, clutching at the dead leaves. With another great strain, he lifted up his head and looked in the direction of the post town, trying to focus on the pathway, one tree at a time. The walk was difficult and already his breath was labored. Harry irritably swore an oath to himself to never run that hard without reason again.

It was a lie, of course, but he's good at that anyway.

Harry tried but couldn't recall ever being so tired in his life (_except for the hours after Dumbledore was killed, but sometimes Harry pretends that never happened, things like that just -don't- happen at Hogwarts, so most of the time he pretends it never_ _did_.)

----

It was 6:17 AM, nautical dawn, when Harry finally got close enough to the town to make out the beginnings of the meeting point. The town was still when he got there; stiller than it ought to be; as if many of the people simply failed to get up and see that it was morning. Harry couldn't particularly blame them as he gloomily listened to the percussion of the scuffle and thump of his footsteps. The sun was covered by a haze of grey, and it cast pale shadows against the tree trunks and street signs.

Harry felt something was inherently wrong, he could sense it in the flex of his finger and the tickle of his nose.

The smell of the place is all wrong, he decided, looking for a place to get his breakfast. There were no children heading to school, there were no early travelers, and most notably, nothing was cooking. (_Harry wasn't sure what upset him more, but his stomach would prefer he just forgot about the people_.) If he had to describe the state of things, he would describe it by color, and that would be white, and the presence of none and all.

(_"White is the color of death, everyone knows that," he once heard Ron say to Hermione one night when the subject of funerals was brought up during their late night study session. _

"_Why is that?" Harry had asked, peering curiously at Ron over his potions book that he was pretending to read._

"_Because Wizards killed in action are buried in white, of course."_

_Even as a year two student, Harry realized it was probably not what the wizards wore but the wrappings around him. He had an idea that Dark magic probably wasn't kind to the bodies of its victims._)

"Eh, how stupid," he said to himself, looking around as he moved along a street on the way to the inn. The roads are _not_ white he said to himself, as he tried to rid the smell of funeral incense from his nose. His imagination was getting the better of him, even after all the long-winded lectures he had received from Hermione. Feeling even more irritable than before, he looked over to an empty Magical Sporting Goods store and sighed. "There's nothing quite as depressing as a closed Quidditch shop," he muttered. _(It wouldn't occur to Harry until much, much later to question what a Magical Sorting Goods store was doing in a Muggle town.) _

There was something that didn't sit well with him as he looked into the shop, and he immediately felt adrenaline break and gush through his veins. At last he caught the sign he was looking for; reflected in the aluminum of the wall coverings, farther down another street was the shadow of those with black cloaks and silver masks.

Harry didn't run or shout, (_like he imagined he would)_ he didn't even turn around, he just continued walking as calmly as he could. They hadn't seen him yet, and if they hadn't seen them, then they were not a problem.

_("If I cover my head, no monsters can get me." He said resolutely, a five year old with hands clutching the edge of his lumpy too-small mattress. "If I can't see them, they can't see me.")_

Harry knew that wasn't true, but he'd like to think it might be.

Another step, another city block, and still there is no shadow of the black cloak upon him, yet there is still a frightening silence, thick and heavy against his legs and arms. _Thick water, like the ocean_, he thought and tried to keep up his brisk pace, _the kind that pulls you under_. It was then that he realized that he was probably trapped in an illusion. Albeit, a very clever one, but a magical illusion nonetheless.

Harry ran the list of possible counter spells through his head, to make it stop, the horrible whiteness.

After a second he still hadn't come up with any spell that would work, and for a moment he wondered if it might all be reality.

Harry tried, but couldn't remain calm any longer; he was trapped without even realizing it had happened. Every part of his being wanted to lash out; to overpower and eliminate the threat.

Part of him grew indignant at the thought of being caught at all. Someone else was pulling the strings and Harry followed just like he was supposed to. And whoever he was following was an immaculate planner. Without meaning to, he felt some begrudging respect for this person.

He looked behind himself, waiting to see something; _anything_ would do, so that he could target his frustration. At first there is nothing as he looked around and on top of the buildings, but upon a double take, he saw the silhouette of someone standing a block down the street. It didn't move, it didn't even seem to notice him like before, but this time, Harry could _feel_ eyes watching him. It itched against his neck, rolling down with the humid morning sweat.

"How long do you plan on making me go in circles, hmm?" he said with the pretense of anger, but there's no feeling in it; he just spoke to be heard, a habit that Snape found increasingly annoying.

_("No one will talk to me, so I will talk to myself." Harry said, watching the other children play at the park. "If no one else, I am happy for my own company.")_

As if he had provoked motion from his opponent, the shadows suddenly shifted to his left and formed to create the silhouette of two Death Eaters, all fire and darkness, but with none of the warmth.

Harry's arms still shook, and even then, he felt mentally exhausted from the night before. He knew there was no way he could beat those two… wizards, no matter what state he was in, not by himself. Nothing could measure the bitterness that he felt in his heart as it churned one painful pump at a time, at this thought. With fickle amusement, he realized they must have gotten up pretty early to catch him off guard like this.

Reluctantly, he admitted to himself that while he was likely to be overtaken, he was most certainly not defeated before it even started.

"Good morning, Potter," said one of the figures, face still obscured by the shadow of the wide black hood and the glass-like silver death masks. The voice was deep and mellow, and all too familiar. Harry couldn't put a face to him, and for that he was glad. He would rather speak to a shapeless shadow than someone he knew.

The Death Eaters didn't say anymore, and Harry realized it was his turn to speak, as if it were some game, but Harry couldn't move his mouth as he ought to be able to. Instead his legs moved, away from the two Death Eaters with a desperation that Harry had never felt so keenly and strongly, even more powerful than the swelling of his heart that beat a taboo and the rush of air from between his lungs.

He didn't look back, he didn't give any thought to the fact that someone might be chasing him, and that he was in real danger, and that perhaps Snape's ghost stories might not have been so silly. Six months time, he had been told, he had six months before Voldemort fully returned and began to strike. It had only been two.

Harry was frantic and sprinting, and he thought he saw something dart into and out of his vision, but it's all peripheral and Harry knows he's not known for being observant.

He braved a backwards glance and yes, someone was chasing him, the taller of the two Death Eaters, going at the inhuman rate that only magic allows, sweeping up dust and leaves with each step. _But there were two,_ Harry thought to himself, _two of them were there only a moment before._

_You're foolish,_ said something that rose up into his mind and throat, forcibly making him choke on the last breath of air he had taken.

Sliding into an alleyway, he quickly opened up the wooden doors of a broken up old style house, the sidling doors groaning in their tracks and shuddering as the lithe body moved through and on up the stairs.

_No one lives here_, thought Harry,_ no one would bother to._ The house was rank with decay and death. For some reason Harry wondered if perhaps no one had died there _yet_.

_You're not running fast enough._

Again Harry felt choked and pressured, like some great weight was now upon his feet, making his steps much too slow. The weakness he felt in his limbs made him throb with a tickle of adrenaline, and it -hurt-. He passed another room, another staircase, and soon he began to regret even entering the dilapidated home. After another frantic moment Harry found himself hiding in an old bedroom, where the floor had rotted and grown black with age.

With shaking sweaty hands, Harry pulled his forgotten wand from his robes, and stared at smudged stick unseeing as he ran through a list of potential spells. He shifted his weight to his left leg and stood as he prepared himself for a last stand.

The spell itself was treacherous, an incantation that would go off just as soon as it emanated from his wand. The air molecules would separate and everything would burn. Harry knew he wouldn't be able to see anything through the smoke, but he hoped it was the same for his opponents.

Harry glanced up and saw that there was a shadow down the corridor; adjacent to room he was hiding in. The shadows were slow moving and painfully close to the room, as they moved to the door Harry had entered but not closed.

Harry found he couldn't move, or breath and he didn't even listen to the sizzle of his wand, preparing at that very moment to begin the spell. There were two shadows, and one was taller, but the other moved with such grace that Harry simply stared, mesmerized as they came to the doorway, looking more apart of the house than Harry, who sat, holding pants of exhaustion in with panic. Ghosts, ghosts and spectres, he thought, and childish terror took him for a moment.

"You run quickly for someone who is so keen to fight," said the shorter of the two, ambiguous and elegant in form. The dark words rolled over him and made him shudder with memory, because quite simply, he's heard that tone before.

The taller one strode toward him and Harry let out a breath, feeling the air rush in and out to help his burning lungs. And with all the speed he could muster, he forced the spell from his mind and out from the tip of his wand. The charm burst forth with a blare, and the exploding inferno that ignited seared his skin. Harry almost hissed in pain as he felt blisters forming on the fingers that held his wand.

When the charm exploded to its entirety, the floor moved out from beneath him and in that very same black spot, he fell swiftly. Harry fell as the embers caught the woodwork and grew steadily, setting everything aflame.

Harry swallowed a gasp as he hit the floor, rubble falling on him and pinning him to the mildewing carpets and foundation; where the fire began to spread onto his clothes. Harry screamed and tentatively tried to lift himself, but quickly fell back down, trying not to look at the wreckage of his legs, where very white bone glared at him from beneath black skin. He was trapped and he felt every nerve in his body with acute awareness; how the hardwood was smooth and dusty and how the fire snapped and crackled, and spread up his body.

Looking down from the ceiling above, the two figures gazed down at him, and Harry could almost see the horror in his face, his own reflection looking scared and frantic from the refection of the glassy death masks.

They both moved to jump down, but Harry couldn't see it, because the smoke was in his eyes and his legs were bleeding into the slats between the broken floor boards and he couldn't breath.

_I don't want to die,_ he thought_. This isn't me. This isn't me._

-----

Harry would've screamed; he would've raised his voice as high as he could, if he could but recall the motion and the meaning behind it. Harry felt he should've been horrified with the tragedy that had occurred, but he simply felt empty and sick.

A moment later, Harry felt his throat unclench and he was able to inhale and exhale.

There was pain as he breathed, and he turned his head to cough the blackened remains of tar in his throat roughly into the fabric (who's it was he didn't care, suffice to say that it was there and warm and smelled of funeral pyres and camellia) under his head. Harry felt a flash of remembrance, something brief that glowed brightly from behind his eyes. He moaned as his arms and legs tightened against him in recalled pain. He remembered flames, fire, and he didn't have anything to hide under (_the guise of death_) this time.

He had looked _up_ at hell, and for one moment he had feared that it was The End.

It had come down to him instead.

Harry groaned low in his throat and rapidly blinked his eyes open, still green but watery and hazed instead of bright and clear like the usual Harry. There was still a shadow of smoke in them that made his eyes red. As he looked around, all Harry could see was darkness, an impenetrable veil that kept his surroundings a mystery. For a moment he fancied himself in hell after all.

After another tentative look into the darkness, Harry reached out, and found that he could push against it (_and what hope this filled him with_), and he moved it aside until at last he could see the dance of firelight outside. Again, Harry wondered if perhaps he was dead after all, until the freshness of the air hit his mouth and nose. He breathed deeply, relived for the moment.

"For a half-dead boy, you sure are noisy," said a gruff voice, and Harry almost choked on his next breath. He bit his lip in agony as his body's already sore limbs involuntarily tensed up in panic. In the instant afterward Harry supposed that the harsh voice belonged to Fenrir Greyback, the werewolf who had turned Remus and tarnished Bill's face. Harry knew he was not in a safe place, but he tried to reason with himself that anything was better than under the smoking wreckage of a house.

Of all the people to be stuck with, Harry thought miserably, it had to be him. He was confused though; if those _two_ Death Eaters had caught him, then why was he here now, alone in a forest with Fenrir Greyback? Was the full moon coming? Was this Voldemort's chosen form of execution?

Harry glanced down at his bleeding legs with a grimace, and in his minds eye, he could still see the rubble that was burning. He resisted the urge to hitch his legs up to his chest.

"Or perhaps, boy, you need me to keep you quiet." Greyback spoke in that gruff drawl again, and it poured over Harry like boiling water, and it was sweltering and not at all comforting. There was no warmth in the dark eyes that looked at him from across the camp through the hole he had made for himself. Harry caught himself before his muscles tensed up again. He fell very quiet and for a moment he sat still, barely breathing and listening intently.

"Why'd you set that house on fire? Think you could get away?"

Harry considered the question for a moment before he mumbled a resigned, "I don't know."

"You've burnt your legs." Greyback said, then fell silent, he instead opted to look at Harry with his sharp untamed eyes. There was something wicked about his eyes, Harry decided, something dark and sinful. He was fearsome. Broad featured, tall, and even seated Harry could tell he was more muscled than he could ever hope to be.

Harry shifted backwards, not wanting to sleep with his back toward such a man, and tried to go back to sleep, but not before getting the at least one more word in.

"What are to going to do with me?" His voice was quieter and more strained than he thought possible, and it was like he had not spoken at all, because Greyback grinned but did not turn back his way, just kept staring into the fire between them.

Ashamed for a moment, Harry wondered if he screamed in his sleep.

There was a long silence outside his self-contained shelter, but Harry did not allow himself the chance to regret his question. He simply pulled the edge of the fabric up over his eyes. _At least this time,_ Harry thought_, I can cover myself from whatever it is that's trying to get me._

Or at least not look at Greyback for awhile.

------

Sitting straight up, Harry took a breath, and it sounded so haunted and pained that he thought that maybe death had decided to take him a little later than originally guessed. Instead he felt the burn of smoke in his lungs and heat on him so intensely he clawed at himself irrationally.

Without any warning, Greyback moved and crouched beside him, holding him firmly around the wrists, and glaring so intently that Harry figured he had done something wrong and was going to be punished.

Looking up at him, Harry waited expectantly, because sometimes he felt there was always something he was punished for.

"What's wrong with you?" Fenrir stated, carelessly. Harry almost forgot to respond, he was so intent on the unsympathetic voice.

"Nothing, why would anything be wrong with me?" his words came out more sarcastic than Harry meant them to, and he could feel his vocal chords scream at him for ever daring to draw breath. He had screamed them raw and now they felt the need to return the favor.

Greyback growled gutturally at Harry for an instant and then … one of his hands strayed to lift and look under the blanket, and Harry temporarily felt Fenrir's warm palm resting on his crotch, and cold air against his still bleeding legs, the bandages nearly useless.

Harry's clothes were in tatters, but he couldn't really bring himself to particularly care, not the when Fenrir's warm palm began suddenly sliding against his crotch in a rough clockwise motion, his fingers moving back and forth and up and down over Harry's most sensitive of places. And what happened next was probably not very extraordinary, although it seemed bizarre to Harry right then: he began to get hard. He shuddered and began to pull away from Fenrir's awful touch. Was Greyback mad or something? Harry most certainly did not want his hands…down there!

Harry barely had time to struggle before Fenrir closed in, a clawed hand at his throat, another on his shoulder, tipping him back until he was lying beneath Greyback, Harry's skin warmed all over by the heated graze of the monster above him.

Harry closed his mouth and refused to submit to the plunging kiss that shocked him with its ferocity. His whole body convulsed as Greyback's thick tongue rushed into his mouth and stroked the back of his throat like a lash, then sunk lower, still lashing, Harry's windpipe reduced to a helpless clutch around it. Harry's hands curled into fists and he had to fight the instinct to struggle and protest. _Struggling always make things like this worse,_ Harry thought, though he couldn't remember where he had exactly heard that pearl of wisdom or whether or not it pertained to this situation or not.

"Good," Fenrir rumbled through the kiss, "you're just as innocent as you look. I was beginning to wonder."

He withdrew his broad tongue, licking at Harry's soft palette and teeth in passing.

Harry panted for breath, trying not to gag. A clawed hand forced his chin up and he knew his eyes were wild with terror as Fenrir looked down into them. Harry hadn't thought Greyback would… at least not while he was still injured…

"You were expecting me to wait until your wounds healed? You're going to be my _bitch _not my mate." Fenrir rubbed a clawed hand down the side of Harry's face, grinning. "But by all means struggle. I would think less of you, if you didn't."

Harry ripped his chin out of Fenrir's hold and let out grunt as he tried to pry the werewolf from his body. "Get the fuck away from me!"

His head was pushed back up, his dark mop of hair riffled teasingly. "Yes you're a pretty little thing, aren't you?" Harry had no idea what Fenrir was referring to. His clothes were destroy, his legs were burned (possibly broken) and bleeding, and he was still covered in the dirt and ash of the flames wreckage.

Harry's eyes narrowed in thinly veiled fusion of embarrassment and frustration.

"You were hoping I'd leave you alone, I take it."

Harry said nothing, making an effort not to drop his gaze. His chest hiccuped, once, still struggling with the heady aftertaste of Fenrir that was lacquered deep into his gullet. All his training, his magical talent, seemed to all be for naught, because he couldn't even protect_ himself _let alone the whole wizarding world. He cursed inwardly at the deficit in his learning. But there was only so much that could be learned from school, and even someone as avaricious for experience as Harry could not hope to have practiced everything at the age of sixteen.

"Would you rather I kill you?" Fenrir growled, as pressed his body against Harry's, from shoulders to hips, pinning him heavily to the ground. Trapped between the chilly earth at his back and the seeping heat from the front, Harry grew dizzy.

"No."

It was the deep rumbling laughter that came from Fenrir's chest, that stroke the right note of fear from Harry.

"You'll have to work for it then." Greyback snorted, and he blew hot breath against Harry's neck.

The clawed hands closed about Harry's slim biceps and lifted him bodily and placed him down, straddling the lap of the werewolf. "Begin at my mouth, then, and work your way down." Harry grimaced as he felt blood rush toward his legs where they now faced the dirt and were painfully exposed to the soil and the minor leg pains he had been suffering increased tenfold.

Harry flushed as leaned forward and Greyback trailed his tongue over his neck. Harry knew he was going to be sick. Maybe it was the fact that the man who turned Remus was licking him, maybe it was the fact that his legs were bleeding freely again. Harry didn't know. All he knew was that he was going to vomit.

"What does this mean?" Harry said again in his quiet strained voice

"That means," Greyback hissed softly, "that you are going to work the privileged of not getting eaten."

"Did you think you and your little fire spell could stop me?" the creature chortled. "Me? The most powerful of all _Were_s? Such a delusional bitch." He crooned, and he again nipped at Harry's shoulder and this time drew blood.

"Do you know what you're good for?" Fenrir continued, using his arms to push Harry down against his quickly hardening cock. "Mounting, fucking, and killing. I would say eating, but I doubt you'd even taste good. Although…" Fenrir then extended his tongue to lap at the smooth curve of Harry's neck and rumbled. "…I could be wrong."

Harry closed his eyes as he felt Greyback shift above him. He kept them closed, even when a blood-tipped claw traced slowly down his stomach, stopping just above his softened penis. Aware of just how sharp those claws could be, Harry tried his best to remain still.

"You won't get away with this," he muttered, trying to keep the quaver from his voice.

The Greyback laughed and fondled Harry roughly, squeezing just a bit too hard, and Harry winced.

"You can't stop me," Greyback said, sliding a hand up to the center of Harry's chest and pushing, until the teen was again lying on his back, Fenrir's body braced above him. "But I'll make you a deal. If you can satisfy me, I won't kill you afterward."

Rage boiled under Harry's skin, and he tensed for an attack, but Fenrir's hands were on his shoulders, pinning him beneath him as a set of very sharp teeth kissed Harry's throat, feeling him. Harry thought about Voldemort, and about how this wasn't the way he wanted to die, and made a decision.

He kissed Fenrir.


End file.
